A Farmer's Widow
by Elohim.Aelf
Summary: It was a completely normal morning for Elisabetta until a Musketeer wanders into her garden and collapses from mysterious injuries. Who is this man and will she be able to save not only his body but his wounded heart as well. Set before show. I suck at summaries. Aramis/OC Rated T for minor gore.
1. Chapter 1

Elisabetta hummed quietly to herself as she stooped to pick some herbs from outside her front door. The sun was slowing rising behind her house and like every day, she rose along with it, having to tend the farm as her husband used to before he was killed by bandits. The past year had proved tough as she was unaccustomed to farm work, but necessity had forced her to learn and her arms had grown strong, her hands calloused, and her skin tanned by the sun.

As a woman living alone in the countryside a few miles outside of Paris, she had learned to keep a blade on her at all times, and more than once she had to chase away bandits who mistook her as a feeble, delicate young lady.

At 24, she was easily the youngest woman living in the area; her husband had moved them out of the city after they got married, hoping to make room for the children they planned on having. But after 3 years of marriage, it seemed as if she was infertile, and then her husband was killed, so the farmhouse would remain empty forever.

On this particular morning, something seemed off to Elisabetta, a strange feeling in her gut warned her of danger, and she was constantly glancing at the road that ran in front of her property, her hand moving to touch the knife at her hip with each look.

Reassuring herself that she was being silly, she had just turned her full attention to her garden when she heard the distant sound of shuffling feet along the gravel path. Whipping her head around, she peered into the distance and made out the figure of a man, hat sitting crookedly on his head, stumbling and shuffling along the road, almost losing his balance with every other step. She relaxed and tutted, "Oh those stupid taverns always produce even stupider men in the morning."

Forgetting the drunk, she sat down in a very unladylike manner, muddying her dress, to inspect the oregano, gently removing the browning leaves from the plant and tossing them aside. Engrossed in her pruning, she did not hear the footsteps approaching until they were directly behind her.

Ready to fight off her attacker, Elisabetta jumped up and had her knife at the man's throat in a second, holding the drunkard off at arm's length.

"Don't come any closer or I will not hesitate to lay open your jugular! Just because I am a woman does not mean I won't—"Elisa stopped speaking as she realized the man she thought was drunk was wearing a musketeer's uniform. Looking up at his face, as he towered over her small frame, she realized that he was extremely pale, his half-closed eyes were unfocused and distant and his lips moved as he whispered something in a language she didn't understand.

Confused, she lowered her knife and looked the man up and down, eyes widening as she saw his hands clutched over a large patch of blood right under the right side of his ribcage. The blue sash he had tied around the wound was completely soaked through with blood and just as Elisabetta opened her mouth to ask if he was alright, the man's eyes rolled back and he crumpled at her feet.

Giving a small yelp of surprise, Elisa stood over him for a moment, unsure what to do. Then, when the man quietly moaned in pain as he regained consciousness, she snapped out of her stupor and knelt at his side. She carefully pried his hands from his wound and winced as she saw the full extent of his injury. He had obviously been shot, but not recently as the ragged hole in his skin was barely oozing blood and the skin around it had already had a chance to turn the angry red color of infection. Elisa quickly tore off some of her skirt and pressed it tightly against the bullet hole, trying to stem the sluggish blood flow.

The musketeer gasped as she applied pressure, and his right hand caught hers, squeezing tightly and groaning in pain. Elisa tore her eyes from her now bloodied hand that was enfolded in his and studied the man's face.

His hat had fallen off when he fell and his wavy brown hair lay tousled around him. He was very handsome, and Elisabetta silently chided herself for staring too long at his thin nose, sharp cheekbones and full lips partially hidden under a neatly trimmed moustache.

The musketeer's brow was drawn with pain and he was sweating from fever yet his dark eyes that were studying her were sharp, cautious, and fearful. He had grown quiet, his incomprehensible mumbling had ceased and his mouth was open only to take in quick, panicked gasps of air.

"Um, you must speak French because you are a Musketeer, so would you mind telling me your name, monsieur?" Elisabetta blushed slightly despite herself as she felt his intense gaze on her.

"Aramis."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **_Hey guys! I'm sooooo sorry about how long it has taken to update! I am in the middle of finals season and I have all my finals and 5 AP exams to take so yeah, sadly my writing has to suffer for the sake of grades :( But! I got this all written today and it's not…that..great…sorry! Please don't kill me! _

Elisabetta had no idea what to do. Here was this incredibly handsome stranger sprawled injured among her garden, getting his blood all over himself, the leaves and her hands. She wasn't sure if she should be irritated, terrified, or excited!

The man, Aramis, she reminded herself mentally, was seemingly more coherent than she was.

"Well madame, I apologize for the inconvenience," he was polite even half conscious, "but if you wouldn't mind, I would very much like to get up off the ground and onto a surface that is not dirt. And if I could bother you for some medical supplies and some hot water, I can tend to myself and be on my way soon." Aramis' voice sounded confident enough, but his pupils were dilated with fever and Elisa could see his arms shaking as he managed to prop himself up on his elbows.

"Oh monsieur please don't overexert yourself! I can get you into the house," Elisa's hands quickly grabbed onto the musketeer's shoulders as he swayed dangerously and she could feel heat radiating from his skin, "I am stronger than I look and you need medical attention. Are you ready? Okay, one, two, three!"

On her final count, she quickly tucked herself into the crook of Aramis' arm and hauled him up rather harshly, trying to counter his weight with momentum, and the injured man let out a short cry of pain.

Wincing in sympathy yet unable to do anything until she got him inside, Elisabetta half carried, half dragged Aramis into her cottage, trying to do her best not jostle him too much and failing. By the time she managed to sit him on her bed, the man was unconscious again and she figured it was safe to leave him to gather her small supply of medical equipment.

Her fingers fluttered nervously as she hovered over the unconscious soldier; she held a pair of scissors in her hands, poised a few inches above his body, ready to cut his coat and shirt away. Elisa silently scolded herself for the second time that day as she felt her cheeks flush, whether it was from her nervousness around blood or her nervousness around handsome gentlemen was beyond her, but either excuse seemed inappropriate when this man was simply lying there bleeding to death on her best linens.

"Okay. You can do this Elisabetta," she quietly pumped herself up, "You have birthed lambs before with minimal swooning, and that involves far too much blood. And stitching a person up should not be so different from stitching up clothing. And it's not like you haven't seen a man without his clothing on before! Come on, I can do this, tending a farm by myself must have given me some sort of strength!" Sighing and praying she didn't faint, she quickly snipped through Aramis' coat then shirt, gently maneuvering his arms out of the sleeves and tossing the dirtied garments aside.

Elisa let out a small squeak as she saw the full extent of his injuries. His entire right side was painted with blood, some dried and some fresh; the actual bullet hole was the size of a coin and its ragged edges were an angry infection red. Besides the musket wound, Aramis' ribcage was severely bruised and he sported a gash just above his hipbone that Elisa suspected would require stitches. But the most worrying injury was by far the gunshot.

As tenderly as she could manage, she tucked her hand under the musketeer's back and gently felt around for the exit wound, swearing quite unladylike when she found his back smooth and unmarked. How on earth was she supposed to restrain a fully grown man while trying to dig a bullet out of him!? Actually, how was she supposed to dig a bullet out in the first place?!

Elisa cast an annoyed glance towards the heavens and hoped that God understood her irritation. "Mon Deiu! You just have to make things difficult don't you, monsieur? I don't care how handsome you are, this is not worth it!" She nearly fell from the edge of the bed as Aramis snickered quietly.

"Well, it's glad to know that my charms can get me a healer when one is needed," his voice was quiet and full of pain yet he managed to inject a certain amount of endearing sarcasm into the statement that caused Elisabetta's cheeks to flush yet again.

The lighthearted moment was gone as soon as the stubborn soldier tried sitting up, only to gasp and end up a crumpled heap in Elisa's lap, getting even more blood on her already ruined apron. Genuinely worried about him and overcoming her fear of laying a hand on him, she swiftly and gently repositioned him on the bed; and, paying no attention to his weak protests that he was fine and just needed to rest, wasted no time in pressing a wine soaked rag against his bullet wound.

The cry that came from Aramis tore her heart in half; he feebly writhed under the firm pressure of her hand and she could tell he was trying his hardest to resist bucking her off of him. She tried her best to calm him, rubbing circles on his shoulder as she poured more wine onto the rag and started to mop the blood off of his body. After his initial scream, he had clenched his mouth shut and all that escaped were pained gasps; his right hand found her skirt and he gripped it tightly as she cleaned the cut on his hip.

After she was done, he just let his body go limp, a feverish sweat replacing the blood that had just been wiped away. Elisa slumped back on the bed, leaning against wall. Well, she thought, that was exhausting, but I'm sure he is much more tired than I am. Nerves frazzled, she shakily climbed over Aramis and stood up, walking to the sink as fast as her trembling legs could take her. She scrubbed the blood from her hands and returned to the bed with a cup of water.

Aramis did not speak a word and he simply gave her a sincerely thankful glance through tired eyes as she lifted his head from the mattress to help him drink. Planning to let him rest before attempting to remove the musket ball, she turned to set the cup on the table when he caught her hand.

"Do you know how to do it?" Aramis asked, nodding down towards his injury, "I'll try my best to help you but….I don't think I will be able to once you start." Elisa gulped loudly as the gravity of what she had to do hit her. Eyes wide and staring at the bullet wound, she made a small noise of fear and stumbled forward a bit, catching herself on the edge of the bed and miraculously not fainting.

Seeing her fall, Aramis instinctively tried to lunge forward to catch her and of course ended up sending a new waterfall of blood pouring from his wounds. This time, he managed to suppress his scream and, concerned for Elisa, ignored the pain and tried his hardest to haul himself into a sitting position to make sure she was alright.

Elisabetta felt so guilty as she saw the color drain from his face when he tried to catch her and shook the fear off of her. Gathering her wits, pushing down the nausea and forcing Aramis to lie back down, she murmured a quick prayer asking for strength then turned her full attention on the man whose breathing was becoming more labored by the minute.

Placing a reassuring hand on Aramis' shoulder and meeting his eyes with confidence, Elisa simply said, "I'll make it and you are going to be fine as long as I am here. Just tell me what I have to do."

**Yet Another Note: **_So, again, please pardon the state of this chapter! I just wanted to upload at least something. I will put more effort into the next one I promise! But it will probably not be uploaded until next weekend. :P Anyways, thanks so much for reading! Reviews are like hugs! I like criticism :)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**: Oh gosh guys I'm really sorry for waiting so long to post this chapter. June was a very busy month for me and then I allowed Netflix to consume my soul so my free time consisted of being a couch potato and doing nothing but watch too many TV shows! *nervous chuckles* Please don't hurt me!

Elisabetta's hands were surprisingly steady as she held the hot knife over the bullet wound. Next to her were all of the supplies Aramis instructed her to collect: bandages, wine, her sowing scissors, a bowl of warm water and a needle and thread. The musketeer was lying rigidly on the bed, unmoving and eyes screwed shut in anticipation.

Both of them taking one final deep breath together, Elisabetta cut diagonally across the entry wound, widening the opening. She flinched as the hot metal sizzled against skin, but what hurt her most was groan that came from Aramis. She was marveling at the fact that he hadn't screamed and started digging for the bullet when he started.

Aramis had managed to keep himself somewhat composed when Elisabetta cut into him and he mentally reassured himself that the pain couldn't get much worse. He was wrong.

Elisabetta put as much pressure as she could manage on his shoulders with her free arm as his back arched off the bed, trying to keep him steady as she dug into the bullet wound. She blinked back tears as Aramis' screams turned into loud sobs, the man begging for her to stop.

Aramis saw nothing but white, heard nothing but his own shameful screams and felt nothing but agony, emanating from his abdomen and shooting throughout his entire body. His hands found Elisa's skirt and he was reduced to a child, tears of pain streaming down his face, his now quieted voice pleading for the pain to end.

And it did. It ended just as quickly as it began and finally the shock of it all left the musketeer limp and unconscious, his nurse panting as she held the bullet in her fingers.

Elisa wiped her face, and to her dismay, found herself replacing the sweat and tears with a smear of Aramis' blood. Quickly cleaning herself with a cloth and quieting her panicked breaths, she turned her attention back to her patient.

Aramis was out; she tried gently slapping his stubbled cheek to rouse him to drink water, but to no avail. Relieved that she wouldn't have to wrestle him down anymore, she made a quick job of stitching the bullet hole closed; it seeped blood even after she closed it, but not a significant amount, so she moved on to the various slashes adorning the musketeer's body, and she ended up bandaging practically the man's entire upper body.

When she was finished, she simply sat on the bed for a moment, taking in the sleeping figure. _Mon Deiu,_ she thought. _There is a half-naked man lying on my bed whose life I just saved. What a day._ Although she admitted to herself that she might enjoy looking at the man, she was worried about his pallor. That gunshot wound had the look of infection, and Aramis was very hot to the touch, a sheen of sweat covering his whole body and a quiet moan of pain escaping his lips with each breath.

As she fetched a bucket of water from the outside pump, she could only imagine how long he had been wandering around wounded before he stumbled upon her farm. An infection as progressed as his could not have been the product of a few hours or even an entire day and a half. And a musketeer rarely travels alone and goes missing for days without an entire troop his fellow soldiers out searching for him.

Elisabetta just pursed her lips and shook her head, marveling at the dilemma she found herself thrust into. Her only key to getting the estranged musketeer back to his friends was the musketeer himself and judging by his appearance, which Elisa admitted wasn't a strong clue to work off of as she had no medical experience whatsoever, he wasn't going to be able to do much for a few weeks.

As if on cue with her thoughts, she heard a cry from inside the house and hurried to get back inside, spilling a third of the water from the heavy bucket in the process. She found her patient awake, propped up on his elbows, eyes wild and delirious.

Aramis was panting from both pain and confusion as his eyes nervously scanned the room; his fever had taken over completely and he had no earthly idea where he was or why his entire body felt as if it was on fire.

Elisa made quick work of laying him back down gently, wincing as his fearful, almost childlike gaze fell upon her, questioning and afraid. Shushing his quiet whimpers, she smoothed his hair and whispered comforting words as she mopped his overheated body with a wet rag. Soon the soldier was asleep again, still in pain judging by the grimace on his handsome face but at least he was still and unprotesting to the ministrations of a stranger.

Aramis leaned into her touch every time her cool hands met his burning forehead, trying to find comfort and escape from the hurt in her touch. Half an hour later, after nearly using half the bucket of water to cool down her feverish patient, Elisabetta was relieved as his body relaxed into a peaceful rest.

As she gave him one last wipe down and set about cleaning up the bloody rags and tools, Elisa was startled when Aramis started murmuring in his sleep in the same language he had been speaking when he stumbled up to her earlier that morning.

His voice was hushed and yearning, laced with small traces of agony as he breathed out the words. _Madre de Dios cuida me. Líbrame de dolor y calmar mi corazón. __Querido Señor, por favor protégeme_

As he repeated the phrases, Elisa realized that he was speaking in Spanish. She had no idea what the words meant but it sounded to her like a prayer. Smiling as his voice slowly faded away and he took his first calmed breath of the entire day, Elisa made a note to ask him what it meant when he woke up.

**Authors Note: ** Both of my parents are from Mexico and my entire extended family was raised hardcore Roman Catholic so I know lots of Spanish prayers. The one I used is one that my abuela taught my cousins and I to pray whenever we were sick as little kids. It translates to: _Mother of God take care of me. Deliver me from pain and calm my heart. Dear Lord please protect me. _

Hopefully I can get the next chapter up faster than this one! Again, I'm sooo soooo sorry about the super long delay! As always, reviews are love and I like criticisim.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's note: Again guys, I'm really sorry about the delay, but I'm a senior in high school and stuff gets really crazy around this time! :/ I will try to start writing the next chapter right now, but no promises about it being published in the next week. :( But hey, they do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder...no? Okay. Anyway! Here is a flashback to put things into perspective! I apologize for any mistakes both historically and grammatically because hey, I'm not perfect. Reviews/criticism are greatly appreciated! :D_

_Four days earlier_

"How do you always manage to do that?!" Porthos growled. Aramis just holstered his pistol and smiled coyly at him. The targets far in front of them belied the reason for Porthos' annoyance; one had been hit in multiple places a few inches left of the center while the other had a neat hole in the dead middle of the target. They had both fired 4 shots, and as always Aramis had managed to get all 4 in the exact same spot.

Aramis chuckled as Porthos stormed off then busted into laughter as the bigger musketeer tried and failed to dramatically holster his own gun, which fell to the ground after some fumbling. Grumbling at his wounded pride, Porthos just sat heavily at a table, taking a swig of wine and glaring at a smirking Athos.

"Oh my dear Porthos, don't look so wounded," Aramis teased, "with plenty of practice maybe next time you will finally best me. Or if not that time then the following. Or maybe even never." He winked at Porthos, lips curled in a challenging smile.

"That's it!" Porthos, quick as a leopard, leapt from his seat and tackled Aramis at the waist, the smaller man giving a surprised OOF! as his back hit the dirt. "I know for a fact that this is something that I'm better than you at!" Porthos proceeded to hold down the squirming Aramis with only one arm to his chest as he burst into laughter along with the ever observing Athos.

Finally managing to wriggle free, Aramis tried to grapple with Porthos but only succeeded in making him stumble back a bit then get himself thrown quite mercilessly to the ground yet again.

"Oi! Oi! Watch the hat! Careful with my hat!" Aramis whined as his beloved hat tumbled off, leaving his head feeling terribly naked and his hair unruly. Finally taking pity on his brother, Porthos rolled bodily off of him and helped him up, unnecessarily assisting Aramis in brushing off his back rather roughly and messing up his hair.

Both chuckling, they joined Athos sitting at the table, who was trying and failing to be the mature one and hold back his laughter. As soon as they all three had calmed themselves and were happily downing cups of wine, Treville emerged from his office and called for Aramis. They all shot each other curious glances before the soldier in question abandoned his drink and ascended the stairs to the Captain's office.

As soon as the door closed behind Treville, Athos turned back to Porthos, a concerned look in his eyes. "How has Aramis been lately?"

Porthos shrugged, "He has been acting more like himself, which is a definite improvement, and he swears he has been actually getting sleep, but I'm not too sure if he is just staying that to get us of his back. It's not even been three months since the massacre and he seems perfectly back to normal, far too normal for my liking. I think he is still seriously hurting." The larger musketeer just cast a worried look at the closed door of the Captain's quarters. "Athos, I know that you want him to recover and make peace with himself, and I know that when we both talked to Treville about letting him go on a mission alone I agreed with you, but I'm not too sure anymore. Wounds as deep as the ones inflicted upon our dear Aramis in Savoy take years to heal and still leave painful scars. Are you sure you want to do this to him? Is he ready to go out alone again?"

Athos sighed, "Honestly Porthos, I'm not sure myself. Speaking as Aramis' friend, I'd rather keep him within our sights for a while longer, but speaking as Aramis' superior I need him back in fighting order soon and feel that as long as he agrees to the mission, he needs to be out there alone to work out his thoughts and his future in the regiment. You very well know that when it comes to carrying out our missions, my judgement must not be impaired by emotion, and I believe that this is the best call for Aramis. Besides, it is a simple enough task. Delivering a letter from the king is hardly musketeer work, and he should be safe."

Aramis was slightly irritated as he walked up the steps to the Captain's office, unaccompanied by his brothers. He swore if this was yet another mental health check up he would simply walk out. He was tired of the constant supervision over the past months. He did not need mothering even though every single time he closed his eyes he saw bloodied snow and the field of dead muske…...STOP! Don't think about it! Ignore it! He quiteted his thoughts with an internal shout as he eased himself into the chair in front of Treville's desk, knowing that the older man did not miss the small stumble in his step when his mind decided to assault him with memories. Aramis simply pretended to ignore the fatherly look of concern in his Captain's eyes and put on a smile, easing back into the charming musketeer he used to be, leaning back in the chair, arms charismatically flopped over the sides, legs stretched languidly out in front of him. "Sir?"

Treville internally winced as he saw the curtain of false happiness fall across his musketeer's face. He had seen this happen before, men who lived through a horrific trauma losing themselves completely then living behind a mask of false pretenses. It hardly ever ended well. He hesitated before speaking, perhaps Athos was wrong, perhaps Aramis was not yet ready to go back into the field. But he had given his word, and as a Captain, although troop welfare was one of the top priorities, he could understand where Athos was coming from. Some time alone, away from the need to pretend, might do Aramis some good. "I have a mission I want you to complete, Aramis. It is simple, yet of great import. The king has drafted a trade agreement and needs it delivered to a nearby duke for a signature before sending it off to Spain. The duke resides less than two days ride from Paris; I will provide you with a map tomorrow morning before you embark. All you must do is have the duke sign the document, then return it to me so I can return it to His Majesty. Any questions?"

Treville watched as the color drained from Aramis' face and moved to the edge of his seat as the younger man whispered, "Alone?" The Captain felt his heart tug as the musketeer in front of him nearly crumpled in on himself, his eyes suddenly large and fearful, boring holes of question into his superior's face. Treville always hated seeing any of his men hurting as he thought of all of them as his sons and brothers, and Aramis's fear was painful. He stood up from behind his desk and knelt in front of the trembling musketeer whose eyes were staring into the distance.

Aramis had felt something snap inside of him as he listened to his Captain's orders; alone meant no one and no one meant everyone was gone. He wasn't ready for everyone to be gone, not again, not this soon. He couldn't bear the thought of _everyone_ sprawled in the woods, throats slashed open, limbs akimbo, blood everywhere it wasn't supposed to be. He couldn't do alone. He could never be alone because alone was worse than dead. The only thing that brought him out of his daze was a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Treville hesitated, hand hovering over the young man's shivering shoulder. They were both soldiers, gentle touches were quite the opposite of what they were used to and it simply felt awkward. But looking into those vacant eyes he felt the need for both of them to be grounded, and he placed his hand on Aramis, as gently as he could. He watched as the musketeer slowly stopped shaking and gasped quietly, their eyes meeting, one pair filled with uncertain fear and the other uncertain concern.

"Aramis, everything is fine. I'm right here with you, Porthos and Athos are right outside. We are here for you and if you feel that you aren't quite ready to go on a mission, that's perfectly acceptable. Athos just felt as if it was a good idea for you to get some time away to figure things out on your own. We are all worried about you but we don't want to smother you."

The musketeer nodded slowly as he listened, ears pricking up when he heard the name "Athos." Taking a few seconds to think, he opened his mouth and spoke quietly. "I think you are right. I do need some time away to get things sorted. If Athos believes this is the best way then I will gladly oblige." A small smile crept onto his face, "And I do believe Porthos is getting irritated with the shooting matches he arranges to keep an eye on me. I should give him a break from losing so badly."

Treville chuckled and smiled back, "Very well then. You shall depart in the morning." As they both stood up and walked to the door, the Captain reached out again, his hand falling on Aramis' arm, "And Aramis, please be careful. Everything is going to be okay. I promise, as your captain, and as your friend."

Smiling, Aramis walked slowly backwards down the steps, "Of course, sir! It's just a simple signature retrieval, what could possibly go wrong?"


End file.
